The Stone Lantern

Pourquoi le silence? (v.f.)

2007-01-06T07:57:00.000-08:00

Que se passe-t-il? Je n’ai rien écrit sur mon blogue depuis novembre ! Premièrement, mes excuses. Le blogue n’est pas mort, mais en hibernation. Dans un de mes commentaires précédents, je vous ai fait part de mon inquiétude qu’en écrivant ce blogue, je risquait manquer de temps pour mes autres projets d’écriture qui me tiennent au cœur. En fait, ceci n’a pas été le cas, car mon blogue m’a servi comme inspiration. Néanmoins, maintenant que cette inspiration commence à porter fruit, j’écrirais moins fréquemment sur mon blogue …

la lanterne en pierre
toujours immobile dans le jardin
-- les herbes grandissent autour

the stone lantern
stands still in the garden
-- grasses grow tall around her

N.B. – en ce qui concerne la traduction de mon haïku en français, j’ai des doutes au sujet du mot « toujours». Qu'en pensait vous ? Devrais-je écrire « reste immobile » ? ou simplement « immobile » ? En anglais, « stands still » inclue une ambiguïté : « still » peut vouloir dire « encore/toujours » et « immobile »…

Why the silence? (v.o.a.)

2007-01-02T08:33:00.000-08:00

What is going on? I haven't published a new post since November! First, my apologies. The blog is not dead, but hibernating. In one of my earlier blogs, I worried about whether writing this blog might take energy away from my other writings. The good news is that it has not, in fact, it inspired me to start on another project. But now that my other project is underway, I can see that I will be updating this blog with less frequency.

the stone lantern
stands still in the garden
-- grasses grow tall around her

Abigail Friedman

Happy Birthday (v.o.f.)

2006-11-19T12:48:00.000-08:00

M. Tribble m’écrit qu’il s’est réveillé il y a quelques jours et s’est exclamé :

ninety-one years
Wow!
one more day

quatre-vingt onze ans
Wow!
une journée de plus

Un peu plus tard, il a tenté de s’exprimer d’une manière plus formelle:

today ninety-one years
but the autumn bell
has yet to ring

aujourd’hui quatre-vingt onze ans
mais la cloche d’automne
n’a pas encore sonné

Et enfin, pour s’amuser, il me propose la variation suivante :

ninety-one years
if I keep on
I'm liable to grow old

quatre-vingt onze ans
si je ne lâche pas
je risque de vieillir

Joyeux anniversaire, M. Tribble !

Bar Harbor (v.a.)

2006-11-16T09:45:00.000-08:00

I was in Bar Harbor earlier this month with my family and friends. The last time I visited Bar Harbor, I must have been about 12 or 13 years old. I had been camping with my family. I remember nothing of that visit, and yet everything. What I mean by this is that since that trip to Bar Harbor in my childhood, my ideal of Beauty in Nature has always been Acadia National Park -- without my being able to recollect any particular scene. I had forgotten everything about the park other than that, for me, it was the most beautiful spot on earth.

This time, we were visiting Bar Harbor in the off-season. There was practically no one around, either in the small town or on the trails of Acadia National Park. I had the sense that the entire island, the ocean, and sky were there just for me.

late afternoon sun --
lobster pots bobbing
faint odor of bisque

fin d’après midi
casiers à homard sur le quai
léger odeur de bisque

(n.b.: I changed the meaning of my haiku when I translated it from English into French because I wasn’t quite satisfied with « casiers à homard qui flottent », and « soleil de fin d’après midi » - I run out of breath just reading those long sentences aloud in French. What’s more, I like the image in the French version….)

Bar Harbor (v.o.f.)

2006-11-11T18:42:00.000-08:00

J’étais à Bar Harbor au début du mois avec ma famille et des amis. La dernière fois que j’ai visité Bar Harbor, c’était à l’age de douze ou treize ans, camping en famille. Je ne me rappelle de rien de cette visite -- et de tout. Ce que je veux dire c’est que, depuis cette visite à Bar Harbor dans ma jeunesse, l’idéal de la Beauté de la nature pour moi fut Acadia National Park, sans que je puisse préciser quoi que ce soit de ce parc. J’avais tout oublié de ce parc sauf que c’était pour moi le plus bel endroit du monde.

Cette fois-ci, on était à Bar Harbor hors saison. Il n’y avait presque personne, ni dans le petit village, ni sur les sentiers de l’Acadia National Park. J’avais le sentiment que toute l’île, la mer, et le ciel était là juste pour nous.

late afternoon sun --
lobster pots bobbing
faint odor of bisque

fin d’après midi
casiers à homard sur le quai
léger odeur de bisque

(Note : J’ai changé le sens de mon haïku quand je l’ai traduis en français, parce que je n’était pas satisfaite avec « casiers à homard qui flottent », et avec « soleil de fin d’après midi » - je perds l’haleine simplement en le lisant à haute voix! En plus, j’aime l’image dans la version française…)

Traductions

2006-10-14T13:54:00.000-07:00

Il y a quelques semaines, j’ai sollicité l’aide des haijins francophones pour traduire les haïkus de M. R. Dean Tribble. (Voir sur ce site, Les haïkus et la maladie, 17 sept. 2006.) Répondant à cet appel, Monika Thoma-Petit m’a envoyé des très belles traductions, que je partage avec vous ci-dessous :

The nurse, an angel
in robe of white, brings a pill
filled with summer days

L'infirmière, un ange
en blanc, apporte une pillule
remplie de jours d'été

the leg stripped of veins
mourns loss of mobility
bounce of July grass

La jambe dépouillée de veines
pleure la perte de mobilité
rebond d'herbe de juillet

faces filled with love
shine down like April showers
nourish aching heart

visages pleins d'amour
rayonnent comme des averses d'avril
nourrissent le coeur souffrant

La traduction de haïku, comme la traduction de poésie en générale, est une activité complexe et délicate. Il y a quelques mois, on m’a demandé de traduire quelques haïkus du français en anglais pour un catalogue qui accompagnera une exposition de sculptures mécaniques en bois, dit karakuri. (L’exposition aura lieu le 1er au 31 décembre 2006, au Centre d'exposition Raymond-Lasnier de Trois-Rivières). J’ai commencé par traduire ces haïkus en essayant de rester le plus fidèle possible aux vers originaux. Mais je n’étais pas contente du tout avec le résultat.

Quelques jours plus tard, la personne en charge du catalogue m’a envoyé les traductions de ces mêmes haïkus français, en japonais. Les traductions étaient merveilleuses, aboutissant à des haïkus exquis, qui marchaient bien dans la langue japonaise. Etudiant les traductions de plus près, j’ai constaté que le traducteur japonais avait resté fidèle à la beauté du texte et à l’esprit de l’original, mais n’avait pas du tout senti la nécessité d’inclure tous les mots qui se trouvaient dans l’original français. Cette expérience m’a libéré de l’idée qu’il faut à tout prix respecter les mots de l’original. Si ceci nous mène à des bons résultats -- comme dans le cas des traductions de Monika ci-dessus -- tant mieux. Mais je pense que, face au défi de la traduction, on doit se permettre une plus grande marge de manœuvre si nécessaire.

J’ai repris mon effort de traduction, cette fois-ci focalisant sur l’image, le sens de beauté, et le sentiment exprimé dans l’originale. Les résultats étaient beaucoup plus satisfaisants.

Trois Rivieres Poetry Festival (v.o.a.)

2006-10-07T12:31:00.000-07:00

Last week I was in Trois Rivieres, Quebec as a guest poet for that town’s 22nd International Poetry Festival. Poets of haiku and of other forms of poetry often tend to go their separate ways, so it was nice to see that the FIP embraces a mix of poets. (Of course, many, many poets write both longer poems and haiku.)

I don’t know how other poetry festivals are organized, but in Trois Rivieres, in addition to the various conferences and late night readings in bars, guest poets also are assigned restaurants in which to perform either lunch or dinner readings, sometimes both. Some diners come specifically for the event, but others are surprised to learn that their mealtime entertainment is neither music nor football nor CNN but poetry.

I must have done about six readings in three days. My favorite was at this great little Italian restaurant, Angéline. (Not only is the food authentic, but in the bathrooms they pipe in Italian language lessons instead of muzak.) We were five who read at Angéline’s, in a mix of languages: Luis Aguilar (Mexico); Bernard Ascal (France); Jean-Marc Desgent (Quebec); Jean Loubry (Belgium); Les Wicks (Australia); and me (U.S.A.). Between readings, Luis and I compared notes on how we write poetry; I tried to convince Bernard Ascal that he is a haiku poet at heart; and Les Wicks and Jean-Marc Desgent discussed translating poetry.

My life as a haiku poet in North America is easy. What does one say to someone as courageous as Ferhat Mehenni, who must struggle simply for the right to sing poetry in his native Kabyle language and who has paid the price in blood? And if we who write haiku in North America sometimes feel it is tough for us to get recognition as “real” poets, think of the challenge Cai Tianxin faces as a writer of free verse in China, where everyone has been taught since childhood that classical Chinese poetry is the only “real” Chinese poetry. But I am just scratching the surface here.

in the wind
a field of reeds
bends as one

-- Abigail Friedman

Les haïkus et la maladie

2006-09-17T18:17:00.000-07:00

Une des expériences la plus touchante pour un écrivain est quand quelqu’un qu’on ne connaît pas prend le temps de nous contacter pour nous dire qu’il a aimé notre livre. Dans mon cas, le chapitre de mon livre qui apparemment a marqué les lecteurs le plus est chapitre 13, Withered Fields. C’est dans ce chapitre que M. Furuhata me parle des haïkus qu’il a écrit quand il subissait une opération de reins, et que moi j’explique la tradition japonaise de l’écriture de « haïkus de malades » et de « haïkus de fin de vie ».

Il y a eu, par exemple, la personne avec un cancer pancréatique qui, selon une amie, a trouvé quelques moments de paix en lisant mon livre. Quand on apprend quelque chose comme ça, on cesse de compter le nombre de livres qu’on vend.

La semaine dernière, j’ai reçu un courriel d’un homme de quatre-vingts dix ans ( !) qui, après avoir lu mon livre, voulait m’écrire pour me raconter son expérience il y a trois ans, écrivant des haïkus pendant sont séjour à l’hôpital après une opération cardiaque. Mr. R. Dean Tribble est un poète et il m’écrit qu’il avait cru que ces longues journées dans hôpital auraient été idéales pour sa poésie. (“On peut penser qu’étant dans un lit à hôpital, avec quelqu’un qui veillait à tout mes besoins, la muse aurait versé pleines d’idées dans ma tête pour des sonnets, villanelles, et vers libres. Mais non. J’ai gaspillé presque un bloc-notes entier avant de délaisser ce projet. Et je m’en plaignait.”)

Puis, un jour, toujours à hôpital, il parait qu’il a commencé à écrire non des vers longs, mais des haïkus:

HAIKU REFLECTIONS FROM A HOSPITAL BED

The nurse, an angel
in robe of white, brings a pill
filled with summer days

the leg stripped of veins
mourns loss of mobility
bounce of July grass

faces filled with love
shine down like April showers
nourish aching heart

Il m’explique qu’après avoir écrit ces haïkus son attitude a changé immédiatement, et il se sentait vraiment bien. Malheureusement, dès qu’il sorti de hôpital, il cessa d’écrire de haïkus. Il termine son courriel en me disant qu’aujourd’hui il écrit des haïkus de temps en temps, surtout quand il attend un médecin, « une situation qui arrive assez souvent à mon age » !

N.B. – Poésies citées avec la permission de l’auteur.

P.S. – Si quelqu’un voudrait tenter la traduction des haïkus de M. Tribble, ne vous gênez pas ! Envoyez-moi vos suggestions.

Illness Haiku

2006-09-15T09:19:00.000-07:00

One of the most amazing experiences as a writer is when someone I’ve never met goes to the trouble of contacting me to let me know how much they enjoyed reading my book. The section of my book that seems to have inspired readers most is Chapter 13, Withered Fields. That’s the chapter in which Mr. Furuhata talks about writing haiku when he is getting a kidney operation, and where I talk about the tradition of sickness haiku and deathbed haiku in Japan.

First, there was the person with pancreatic cancer who I learned found solace in reading my book. I found that overwhelming. Then, last week, I received an email from a ninety-year-old man (!) who told me about writing haiku when he was in the hospital for heart surgery, about three years ago. Mr. R. Dean Tribble is a poet, and he had expected his long days in the hospital would be the perfect time to write poetry. (“One would think that lying in the hospital bed with all your wants attended too, the muse would pour ideas into one’s head for sonnets, villanelles, and reams of free spirited verse. Not so. I wasted half a tablet of paper before giving up and I felt very grumpy about it.”)

Then, one morning while still in the hospital, out of the blue, he started writing haiku:

HAIKU REFLECTIONS FROM A HOSPITAL BED

The nurse, an angel
in robe of white, brings a pill
filled with summer days

the leg stripped of veins
mourns loss of mobility
bounce of July grass

faces filled with love
shine down like April showers
nourish aching heart

His grumpiness went away, he wrote me, but once out of the hospital haiku dropped off his radar. He still writes haiku from time to time, and he tells me that this usually happens while he's waiting for a doctor “which happens often at my age.”

N.B. - Poems reprinted with permission of the author.

Poetry Reading (v.a.)

2006-09-07T20:21:00.000-07:00

The last few days (from about August 20-26) have been really crazy. On the 24th, I had my book launch in Quebec City (my Canadian premiere!) and two days later, after several months of preparation and anticipation, we held a “renku/haiku day” in Quebec City, lead by the well-known poetry couple William J. (“Bill”) Higginson and Penny Harter. Events on the 26th began with Bill Higginson’s talk on the various contexts of Japanese haiku, tanka and linked poetry. We ended in the evening with a bilingual (French/English) renku session, lead by Bill and Penny. Between these two events, many of us (over 40 people showed up on the 26th) celebrated the launch of L' Érotique poème court/haïku, a collective work coedited by Micheline Beaudry & Janick Belleau and illustrated by Line Michaud, at Le Petit Coin Latin, a great little restaurant in the old city.

You are probably expecting me to give you a summary of the events on the 26th, or maybe a description of my book launch. But in life as in haiku, often it is the little things that go almost unnoticed that grab our souls and become fixed in our memory. So here is what I would like to tell you:

Bill and Penny came to visit us in Quebec City a few days before the “renku/haiku day.” Like the finest guests, they came with tasteful gifts for me and my family. But there is another gift they gave us, a few days after their arrival, that really left a deep impression.

One evening, Penny and Bill said they wanted to offer us an evening poetry reading, just for me and my family, in our living room. I accepted with a mixture of emotions – the appeal of the new mixed with a bit of anxiety (what if I didn’t like the reading? What would I say?) The next day, as agreed, Bill and Penny organized themselves for the reading, choosing poems from the many works they have authored, while I prepared tea. My husband and I installed ourselves on the couch reclining like Romans awaiting a sumptuous meal, and the reading began.

First Penny, her voice lucid and unadorned, lulled us with excerpts from her book Stages and Views. That book contains poems inspired by the woodblock prints of Hiroshige et Hokusai. I closed my eyes and imagined myself standing before the Japanese prints in the round room of the Guimet museum in Paris. Penny followed this reading with some of her nature poems from Lizard Light, which evoke Sante Fe, New Mexico. After Penny’s reading (very early on in the evening I completely lost track of time) it was Bill’s turn. Bill read several quite personal poems which helped me get to know him better – excerpts, for example, from Paterson Pieces: Poems, 1969-1979 (which covers the period in his life when he lived in Paterson, New Jersey) and from Death Is & Approaches to the Edge, a moving book that unfortunately is out of print.

I have no idea how much time went by before this intimate evening of reading poetry came to a close. I only know that I enjoyed a delicious evening, listening to the sound of words, imagining myself in other places, at other times, sharing in the emotions expressed by these two talented poets. The evening over, I felt as calm as if I had spent an afternoon lying in the grass, gazing at the clouds.

Would I have had the courage to propose such a lecture of my own works to a friend? I doubt it, but one of these days, I am determined to do it.

* For those of you who really would like to know more about how our renku/haiku day went on August 26, you will soon be able to read about it in issue number 13 of Gong, the journal of the Association of French-language Haiku.

Lecture de Poésie (v.o.f.)

2006-09-02T12:12:00.000-07:00

Ces derniers jours ont été très mouvementés pour moi. Le 24 août se déroulait le lancement de mon livre à Québec et deux jours plus tard, après plusieurs mois de préparation et d’anticipation, se tenait la « Journée renku/haïku » à Québec, animée par le couple William J. (« Bill ») Higginson et Penny Harter, deux poètes américains renommés. La journée du 26 a commencé avec l’allocution de Bill Higginson portant sur les différents contextes du poème japonais (le haïku, le tanka, et le renga). Nous avons terminé en soirée avec une séance de renku dirigée par Bill Higginson et Penny Harter. Entre ces deux événements, plusieurs des participants (nous étions une quarantaine) ont assisté dans une atmosphère très chaleureuse et amicale, au lancement de L' Érotique poème court/haïku, un ouvrage collectif codirigé par Micheline Beaudry & Janick Belleau et illustré par Line Michaud.

Vous vous attendez, peut-être, à ce que je vous offre un compte-rendu sur les événements du 26 ou même sur mon lancement du 24. Mais dans la vie comme dans les haïkus, c’est souvent les petites choses qui passent presque inaperçues et qui en fin de compte, s’installent dans notre âme et notre mémoire. Voici donc ce que j’aimerais vous raconter:

Bill et Penny sont venus nous visiter quelques jours avant la journée renku/haïku. Comme tous les invités les plus fins et gentils, ils sont venus avec des cadeaux pour moi et ma famille. Mais c’est un autre cadeau qu’ils nous ont offert, quelques jours après leur arrivée, qui m’a vraiment impressionné.

Un soir, ils m’ont dit qu’ils aimeraient m’offrir une soirée de lecture de poésie. Juste pour moi et ma famille, dans notre salon. J’ai accepté avec un mélange de sentiment, l’attrait du nouveau mêlé à un ressentiment d’anxiété. Le lendemain, le soir convenu, j’ai préparé du thé tandis que Bill et Penny se sont organisés dans le calme, sélectionnant plusieurs poèmes puisés à même leurs nombreux ouvrages. Mon mari et moi nous sommes installés bien confortablement sur le divan (allongés comme des romains qui s’attendent à un repas somptueux !) et la lecture a commencé. D’abord Penny, d’une voix claire et sans ornements, nous a bercé avec des extraits de son livre Stages and Views, qui contient une variété de poèmes inspirés par les estampes japonaises de Hiroshige et Hokusai. Je fermais les yeux et je me retrouvais dans la salle ronde du musée Guimet à Paris, devant ces estampes japonaises. Penny a poursuivi cette lecture avec d’autres poèmes, incluant plusieurs de son livre Lizard Light, qui sont liés à la nature – surtout de Sante Fe, New Mexico, et qui débordent d’imagination. Après la lecture de Penny (très tôt dans la soirée j’ai perdu le sens de l’heure), ce fut le tour de Bill. Bill a lu des poèmes très personnels, qui m’ont aidé à mieux le connaître. Des extraits, par exemple, de son livre Paterson Pieces: Poems, 1969-1979 qui couvrent la période de sa vie lorsqu’il vivait à Paterson, New Jersey, ainsi que Death Is & Approaches to the Edge, un livre émouvant qui est malheureusement non disponible.

Je ne sais combien de temps s’est écoulé quand cette lecture intime se termina. Je sais seulement que j’ai passé une soirée délicieuse, à jouir du son des mots, à m’imaginer dans d’autres lieux et d’autres temps, à partager des émotions vécues et exprimées par ces deux poètes talentueux. La soirée finie je me sentais aussi calme que si j’avais passé un après midi d’été allongée sur l’herbe à contempler les nuages.

Aurais-je le même courage de proposer une lecture semblable à une amie ? Un de ces jours, je vais le faire!

* Pour ceux qui aimeraient en savoir plus sur la journée renku/haïku du 26 août à Québec, vous pourrez en lire un compte-rendu prochainement, dans la revue Gong (numéro 13).

Bibliomane dans le bain (v.f.)

2006-08-14T16:49:00.000-07:00

Quelqu’un m’a demandé l’autre jour quel était mon livre de haïku préféré? Je me souviens lui avoir donné une réponse assez vague, disant quelque chose comme il y a tellement de bons livres dans le monde….

Hier, après une longue randonnée à vélo, j’ai pris un bain pour détendre mes muscles. Pendant que l’eau coulait, la question me revint et je me suis dit qu’après tout j’en avais un livre de haïku préféré. C’est un recueil japonais des haïkus d’Issa (1763-1827), furo de yomu Issa, avec un commentaire de Kato Sadahiko, publié par Shisôsha (1996).

Furo de yomu Issa veut dire, en gros, “Issa pour lire dans le bain.” Le livre est écrit sur du papier résistant à l’eau pour qu’on puisse le lire dans le bain, sans que l’eau ou l’humidité l’abîme. Ne trouvez-vous pas que ceci est sans doute la façon la plus civilisée de lire des haïkus ?

Pourquoi y a-t-il si peu de livres faites pour lire dans le bain? Quand mes enfants étaient plus jeunes, ils avaient des livres en plastique épais qui étaient à la fois imperméables et indestructibles. Mais il paraît qu’après l’âge de cinq ans, notre société limite à la terre sèche l’environnement dans laquelle nous sommes sensés lire. Quel gâchis !

En réalité, je note qu’il existe plusieurs livres en anglais pour adultes écrits sur papier imperméable. Mais les seuls que j’ai pu trouver sur Internet étaient des livres érotiques ! Y a-t-il une raison pour laquelle la poésie n’est pas perçue dans l’ouest comme une lecture digne pour le bain ?

Confortablement installée dans mon bain, je reposais mes jambes fatiguées, lisant:

我と来て遊べや親のない雀
waga to kite asobeya oya no nai suzume

vient donc avec moi jouer -
oh petit passereau sans parents

J’essayais d’écouter si les oiseaux au delà de la fenêtre de la salle de bain chantaient. Apparemment, Issa a écrit ce haïku à l’âge de six ans. A cette époque, sa mère était morte et il n’avait pas encore de belle-mère.

Mon seul problème pour lire ce livre dans le bain est que mon dictionnaire électronique japonais-anglais n’est pas du tout imperméable. Donc, chaque fois que je rencontre un mot japonais difficile à traduire, je dois sortir du bain et me sécher pour trouver la bonne traduction (ou sauter le passage.) Ceci fut très frustrant, et ne fait que renforcer ma conviction que quelqu’un devrait publier une collection imperméable de haïkus en français (ou en anglais). Une consommatrice attend.

Tomes for Tubs (v.o.a.)

2006-08-06T08:32:00.000-07:00

Someone asked me the other day to name my favorite book of haiku. I recall giving a vague answer, saying something about there being so many good books to choose from....

Then yesterday I went for a long bike ride, and in the evening as I was drawing the water for a bath, I decided that I do have a favorite book of haiku, after all. It’s a collection in Japanese of the work of Issa (1763-1827), entitled furo de yomu Issa, with commentary by Kato Sadahiko, published by Shisôsha (1996).

furo de yomu Issa means, basically, “Issa for reading in the bathtub.” And now you see why it is one of my favorites. It’s written on specially coated paper so that it can be read in the bathtub and not be ruined by steam or drops of water. Isn’t that absolutely the most civilized way of reading haiku poetry?!

Why aren’t more books designed for reading in the bathtub? When my children were young they had these thick plastic books that were both waterproof and indestructible. Yet it seems that after the age of five, society restricts our reading environment to dry land. Such a pity!

Well, not quite. It turns out that there are books in English written on water resistant paper, but the only ones I could find on the web were erotica. Is there some reason why poetry is not considered appropriate bathtub reading in the west?

I sat in the tub, easing my tired muscles, and read,

我と来て遊べや親のない雀
waga to kite asobeya oya no nai suzume

come with me
and let’s play
oh little orphan sparrow!

I strained to hear if birds might be singing from my window. Issa apparently wrote this at the age of six. His mother had died, and he did not yet have a stepmother.

The only problem for me in reading this book in the bathtub is that my electronic Japanese – English dictionary is not waterproof. So when I reach a word I am not quite sure of, I either have to get out of the bathtub and dry myself off to look up a word, or skip the passage. This is quite frustrating, and it reinforces my conviction that someone will have to get around to publishing a waterproof collection of haiku in English (or French).

Your buyer is waiting.

Bashô’s Drafts (v.a. or "version anglaise")

2006-07-28T02:05:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine sent me Professor Nobuyuki Yuasa’s translation of an account of Bashô’s last days by Takarai Kikaku (1661-1707), a disciple of Bashô. (Bashôô shûen no ki, An Account of our Master Bashô’s Last Days). I thoroughly enjoyed this text and I am once again grateful for the work of Professor Yuasa, who has translated so many essential works related to Japanese haiku.

Kikaku’s account of Bashô’s final days is quite moving. Still, there was one thing that made me smile as I read the text.

I was familiar of course with Bashô’s “death haiku”:

旅に病んで夢は枯野をかけ廻る
tabi ni yande yume wa kareno o kakemeguru

ill on a journey
my dreams through withered fields
wander

(Translated by Abigail Friedman)

What I did not know is that after Bashô shared this haiku with his disciples, according to Kikaku, the already quite weak and ill haiku master paused and asked aloud if perhaps the haiku ought to end like this:

枯野を廻るゆめ心
kareno o meguru yumegokoro

ill on a journey
wandering through withered fields
my dreamer’s heart

(Translated by Abigail Friedman)

Even if intellectually I know I shouldn’t think this way, all-too-often after writing an imperfect haiku, I find myself thinking, “Well, a real haiku poet with real talent would never have to fix or edit her haiku!” But here we have Bashô, the Great Master, wondering about his haiku after composing it.

Now that I have read Kikaku’s account, I hope I can finally put to bed all of this nonsense in my head about perfect haiku, and concentrate more on improving my drafts.

PS – The significance of Bashô’s decision after reflection to stick with his original haiku does not escape me… He had the humility to question his work, but he also truly was a great haiku master.

Les Brouillons de Bashô (v.o.f.)

2006-07-22T16:03:00.000-07:00

Une amie m’a envoyé une traduction d’un oeuvre de Takarai Kikaku (1661-1707), disciple de Bashô, sur les derniers jours de Bashô. (Bashôô shûen no ki, An Account of our Master Bashô’s Last Days.) J’ai beaucoup aimé ce texte et encore une fois je me trouve reconnaissante envers le Prof. Nobuyuki Yuasa pour avoir traduit un texte important relatif au haïku du japonais à l’anglais. (Malheureusement je ne pense pas qu’une traduction de ce texte existe à l’heure actuelle en français).

Le récit de Kikaku sur les derniers jours de Bashô est très émouvant. Cela dit, il y a une chose qui m’a fait sourire en lisant le texte.

Je connaissais, bien sûr, le dernier haïku écrit par Bashô avant sa mort :

旅に病んで夢は枯野をかけ廻る
tabi ni yande yume wa kareno o kakemeguru

malade en voyage
mes rêves sillonnent
des champs desséchés

(Traduit par Abigail Friedman)

Selon Kikaku, après avoir partagé ce haïku avec ses disciples, le déjà très faible et malade Bashô s’est posé la question si peut-être le haïku devrait terminer ainsi :

枯野を廻るゆめ心
kareno o meguru yumegokoro

C’est-à-dire,

malade en voyage
sillonnant des champs desséchés
mon coeur rêveur

(Traduit par Abigail Friedman)

Même si intellectuellement je sais que je ne devrais pas penser ainsi, trop souvent après avoir écrit un haïku je me trouve pensant « Un vrai haïkiste avec du vrai talent n’a pas besoin de corriger ou éditer ses haïkus ! » Mais voilà Bashô, le grand maître Bashô, se posant des questions sur son haïku après l’avoir formulé.

J’espère enfin pouvoir mettre derrière moi toutes ces histoires de perfection et me concentrer plus sur l’amélioration de mes brouillons.

PS – L’importance du fait que Bashô après réflexion a gardé l’original ne m’échappe pas….Il avait de l’humilité, mais il était quand même un grand maître.

Photographie comme haiku (v.f.)

2006-07-17T14:19:00.000-07:00

Mon éditeur m’a envoyé un courriel il y a quelques jours signalant une revue de mon livre dans un journal Internet sur la photographie digitale. L’article m’a fasciné parce que c’était en fait un essai sur la photographie comme haïku.

J’ai souvent pensé que le haïku est une sorte de photographie pour les moins riches – après tout, pour produire un haïku on a besoin seulement de papier et de crayon. En plus, les deux se ressemblent en leur objectif de capturer un moment dans le temps.

Il me semble que les deux formes d’art (le haïku et la photographie) doivent aussi faire face à le même défi, soit que le moment capturé n’est pas toujours compris ainsi par le lecteur (ou celui qui regarde la photo.) Autrement dit, j’écris un haïku qui pour moi veut dire une chose mais le haïku est si bref... comment assuré que le lecteur comprend ou sent ce que j’ai senti ?

Dans le monde du haïku, il y a ceux qui ont essayé de répondre à ce défi en ajoutant un contexte (par exemple à travers le haibun ou le haiga) ou un commentaire. L’auteur de la revue que j’ai cité ci-dessus se demande si ceci peut être utile pour la photographie aussi. Hmmm... Je ne pourrais vous dire, surtout puisque je n’ai même pas une caméra. (Je suis de celles qui achètent une caméra jetable puis se demandent pourquoi la photo est si mauvaise.)

Et que dire de haïku comme commentaire à la photographie? Ou la photographie comme commentaire sur le haïku ? Le mois dernier, j’ai vu une exposition de photographies de l’artiste Roberto Kamide, pour lesquelles son fils George a composé des haïkus. Sur l’Internet, vous pouvez trouver un bon nombre de haikistes qui ont choisi de marier leurs haïkus à la photographie. Un de mes sites web favoris pour ceci est Brooks Books haïku.

Photography as Haiku (v.o.a.)

2006-07-14T21:18:00.000-07:00

My publisher emailed me today about a review of my book on a digital photography newsletter website, of all places. It's fascinating because it isn't so much a review as an inspired riff on photography as haiku.

I've often thought of haiku as a poor person's photography -- after all, you only need a pencil and paper to do haiku. And both photography and haiku seek to capture a moment in time.

It seems that both art forms also struggle with the idea that the moment that is captured may not be understood correctly by the reader (or viewer). In other words, I write a haiku and it means one thing to me but it is so brief, how can I be sure that the reader senses what I sensed?

In haiku, some have tried to address this by providing context (haibun, for example, or haiga) or commentary. The author of the photography newsletter wonders whether adding commentary and context might also be appropriate in photography. Hmmm, I don't have an answer to this, especially since I don't even own a camera. (I'm the kind of person who buys disposable cameras and wonders how come the pictures come out so crummy.)

And what about haiku as commentary to photography? Or photography as commentary to haiku? Last month I saw an exhibit of photographs by the artist Roberto Kamide, in which his son George had composed haiku for each photograph. On the Internet you can find a number of haiku poets who have chosen to pair their haiku with photography. One of my favorite sites for this is Brooks Books Haiku.

les langues et le haiku (English version)

2006-07-10T16:17:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I wrote that I wanted to address a question that came up during the June 20 talk I gave at the Japan Information and Culture Center, in Washington. The question was as follows: Do the particularities of a given language beget haiku characteristic of that language?

This question of course merits an in depth analysis but given that I’m writing a blog here, I’m going to offer a more limited response. Still, I hope to stimulate thinking on the matter.

When I lived in Japan, I was intrigued by haiku with a certain measure of ambiguity. Not all Japanese haiku are ambiguous but I was particularly fascinated by those that -- because of the way they were written – were ambiguous. Here’s an example, a haiku composed by Shuoshi (1892-1981) :

Hagi sakeri asama o noboru kumo midare

bush clover in bloom -
climbing Mount Asama
clouds scattering

Well, what is climbing Mount Asama ? The poet? The clouds? It isn’t a question of translation, but interpretation. A Japanese acquaintance explained to me that of course it was the clouds which were climbing and dispersing, because the verb noboru (to climb) is conjugated in such a way that it becomes the adjective to the word « clouds ». But another Japanese acquaintance said, “No, I think it is the author of the haiku who is climbing and he arrives at the summit and sees the clouds scattering quickly above him.”

I like writing haiku in English with this same kind of ambiguity – I find it amusing and refreshing. But the reaction of people is not always positive. I have the feeling that in English, this kind of haiku with ambiguity is seen as less advanced, less developed, compared to a nice, solid, “real” haiku with those famous two contrasting images and which wake you up by their clarity and their honesty.

Is this a linguistic difference? I would say so. Japanese is full of ambiguity and this ambiguity is seen in Japan rather positively. A haiku that incorporates a certain degree of ambiguity is considered pleasant in Japan. By contrast, American English is direct and active. It’s a source of pride, and we like seeing it in our prose and in our haiku.

I’ve only offered a small example. As I wrote at the outset, a blog is not exactly a doctoral dissertation. But I’d love hearing your views on the matter.

Les langues et le haiku (en français)

2006-07-09T10:19:00.000-07:00

Il y a quelques jours, j’ai écrit que je voulais aborder une question évoquée lors de mon discours le 20 juin au Centre japonais d’information et de culture, à Washington. La question qui a été posé est la suivante : est-ce que les spécificités d’une langue mènent à des haïkus particuliers à cette langue ?

Cette question mérite une analyse profonde mais, vu que j’écris un blog, je vous offre une réponse plutôt limitée. J’espère néanmoins stimuler vos réflexions sur ce sujet.

Quand j’étais au Japon, les haïkus qui possédaient un certain degré d’ambiguïté m’intriguer. Pas tous les haïkus japonais sont ambigus, bien sûr, mais ceux qui incorporaient de l’ambiguïté par la manière dont ils étaient écrits me fascinaient. Par exemple, voici un haïku composé par Shuoshi (1892-1981) :

Hagi sakeri asama o noboru kumo midare

En anglais, je le traduis comme:

bush clover in bloom -
climbing Mount Asama
clouds scattering

En français, peut-être:

trèfle en fleurs --
grimpant Mont Asama
les nuages se dispersent

Mais, qu’est ce qui grimpe Mont Asama ? Le poète ? Les nuages ? Ce n’est là pas une question de traduction, mais d’interprétation. Une connaissance japonaise m’a expliqué que bien sûr c’était les nuages qui grimpaient puis se dispersaient, parce que le verbe noboru est dans une conjugaison qui fait que le mot devient un adjectif lié au mot suivant (nuages). Mais une autre connaissance japonaise m’a dit «Non, je pense que c’est l’auteur qui grimpe et il arrive au sommet, puis voit les nuages qui s’éparpillent, vite, au-dessus de lui. »

J’aime en anglais écrire des haïkus avec ce même ambiguïté que je trouve amusante, rafraîchissante. Mais la réaction des gens n’est pas toujours positive. J’ai le sentiment qu’en anglais, ce type de haïku est vu comme étant moins avancé, moins développé qu’un bon, « vrai » haïku avec ces fameux deux images qui contrastent, et qui réveille par leur clarté, leur honnêteté.

Est-ce là une différence linguistique ? Moi, je dirais « oui ». La langue japonaise est pleine d’ambiguïté. Ceci est vu au japon d’une manière plutôt positive et un haïku qui intègre un certain degré d’ambiguïté est perçu comme plaisant au Japon. Par contre, aux Etats-Unis, la langue américaine est directe, active. Nous sommes fiers de ça, et nous aimons voir ceci dans notre prose et nos haïkus.

Je vous ai offert un petit exemple seulement. Comme j’ai dit au début, dans un blog, on ne va quand même pas écrire une thèse de doctorat. Mais j’aimerai bien lire vos perspectives sur ce sujet.

Aux lecteurs francophones!

2006-07-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

Le message de Tess a été une inspiration pour moi. Vu qu'il y a tant de francophones passionnés de haïku, surtout dans la région de Quebec où j’habite, je vais essayer d’écrire ce blog en français et en anglais.

Cela dit, j’ai une petite faveur à demander à mes lecteurs francophones : Si vous voyez des fautes d’orthographes, grammaires, etc., n’hésitez pas à m’envoyer un courriel (sous forme de commentaire) corrigeant mes fautes. Je ne serai pas gênée du tout. Au contraire, je serai très reconnaissante et je corrigerai ces fautes au plus vite possible.

Alors, allons-y ! Comme le haïku, ça va être un effort améliorer par l’esprit communautaire du groupe !

Tess’s message was an inspiration for me. Given that there are so many French speaking lovers of haiku, especially in Quebec where I live, I will try to write this blog in French and in English.

That said, I have a small favor to ask my francophone readers: If you see grammar, spelling, etc. mistakes, please don’t hesitate to send me an email (as a comment) correcting my errors. I will not be put out at all. In fact, it will be the reverse. I will be most grateful and I will correct these errors as soon as possible.

So, let’s go! As with haiku, it will be an effort much improved by the community spirit of the group!

What is haiku (con't.)?

2006-06-23T10:18:00.000-07:00

I'm still enjoying my vacation. Yesterday I took my 12-year-old son and his cousin to visit the museums in our nation's capital, on the Mall. It was 94 degrees and muggy. We visited the insect zoo and an exhibit on the Arctic. Then we crossed the Mall to the Hirshhorn sculpture garden and after that, tackled the Hirshhorn itself.

What's that? The question came as we approached the first item in the sculpture garden, an array of metal construction beams, painted thick with red. That is NOT art! my son announced, indignant. Sure it is, I told him. It's a modern sculpture. Why is that art? How do you know it is art? I wished my sister-in-law, the art history professor, were around. She would have the answer. I tried the Socratic method. Pointing to a Maillol nude, Well, boys, what about that? Do you think that is art? and then, before Rodin's Burghers of Calais, What about that? Is that art? and inside the Hirshhorn before an assortment of paintings, What about that? is that art? And this, is this art? Sam and his cousin studied each piece, debating with each other which ones were art and which not. We came to a sculpture, Kiln Man, by Robert Arneson, and there the two clearly disagreed, my nephew convinced it was art and my son just as convinced it wasn't. I couldn't figure out what their standard was, and they couldn't explain it to me, but they were sure, regardless.

(You know where this is going, of course.) It didn't take long for me to ask myself, What is art? Well, what is haiku? There are hundreds if not thousands of definitions of art. My sister-in-law the art historian challenges her students to think: why is one thing called "art" and another "craft"? What is art to one person is not always art to another, even among professionals.

So, what is haiku? Do we all need to agree on a definition? Can I define haiku my way and you define it your way? Can I say, That's a great haiku! while another says That's not haiku at all? For me, the answer is yes. Everyone can, in theory, define haiku in his or her own way, but - and here's the catch - you better be prepared to defend your opinion, because I am going to defend mine with passion and determination.

So, if you aren't sure what haiku is, you may as well start with the definition in my previous post. If you are sure of what is haiku, then go right ahead and pick out your favorites, and try to write haiku that lives up to your standard. But don't assume I'm going to agree with you. I've got strong opinions.

What is haiku?

2006-06-21T19:44:00.000-07:00

I had a great time last night giving a talk about my book at the Japan Information and Culture Center in Washington, D.C. The audience as far as I could tell was a mix of westerners with an interest in things Japanese, and Japanese with an interest in haiku. All of the questions were excellent, and I enjoyed trying to answer them, and I especially enjoyed thinking more about the questions in the car on my way home.

Here's one question that came up: What is haiku? It's actually a really good question, and it is one of the hardest ones for me to answer. Often, someone will say, "Oh, it's a seventeen-syllable Japanese poem about nature," or "It's a poem in three lines about nature." But in fact, nowadays most haiku poets outside Japan are moving away from a structural definition of haiku (x number of lines, x number of syllables) and toward a definition based upon content.

In my book, I quote the current Haiku Society of America (HSA) definition of haiku:

A haiku is a short poem that uses imagistic language to convey the essence of an experience of nature or the season intuitively linked to the human condition.

I like this definition not because it is perfect (after all, there are some good haiku out there with no connection to nature or to the seasons) but because it gets budding haiku poets away from thinking about syllables and lines.

You might be asking what's so bad about focussing on syllables? Well, for one thing, the seventeen syllable bit comes from the Japanese, but in Japan a "syllable" works very differently than in English. (In fact, the actual Japanese term isn't syllable but "sound.") Here's the challenge: In Japanese, all "syllables" are the same length, so seventeen syllables are seventeen "beats." Seventeen syllables in Japanese gives you a rhythm. But in English, the length of a syllable has no bearing on rhythm as it is not equivalent to a common length of a beat. For example, "a" is one syllable, but so is "read." "A" is a short beat, but "read" is a long beat. So if you try to write a seventeen syllable haiku in English, you are really doing nothing to help give a rhythm or beat to your poem -- which is what you would be doing in Japanese, of course.

I think I'll stop there. There's tons of information on this subject on the Web. Next time I sit down to write, I'll address some of the other questions that came up, like do differences in languages beget different kinds of haiku? And if so, how do they differ?

Book Sense!

2006-06-18T09:47:00.000-07:00

My publicist emailed me earlier this month to tell me that my book has been picked as a Top Pick for June by Book Sense, the association of independent booksellers of America. She's happy because it means that my book, The Haiku Apprentice: Memoirs of Writing Poetry in Japan, is featured in the monthly Book Sense flyer available at all Book Sense independent bookstores, and it puts me on the screen for reviewers and interviews. I'm happy because I feel less like an idiot when I walk into a book store and ask them if they'd be interested in stocking my book.

Walking in off the street to sell my book is what I'm doing all this week. I took the week off of work and drove down from Quebec to Washington, D.C., with a stash of books in my trunk. The hook is a talk I've been asked to give June 20, at the Japan Information and Cultural Center, jointly sponsored by the Japanese Embassy and the Japan America Society. The rest of the time, I'm popping into bookstores and promoting my book. I feel like an encyclopedia salesman. What's worse, my relatives keep asking me when the Washington Post or the New York Times is going to review my book. "And what's this Japan-America Society thing? How come Borders isn't asking you to do a signing?"

The big discovery for June? The same as last month: bookstore managers look at the word "Poetry" and roll their eyes. Poetry, it turns out, is a non-starter in America. Now I am catching on, so when I walk into a store, I quickly point to the word "Memoir" in the title. I even mention Diplomat. And Foreign Policy. And North Korea. (I really do talk about North Korea in my book. Check it out.) None of this seems to be enough to overcome the P word, and there being no sex or violence in my book. But Book Sense did select it as a Top Pick for June, didn't they? So it must be really, really well-written, right? I mean, because the sex isn't there. (Okay, so next time, I'm throwing in the sex and getting rid of the poetry.)

The winner of the Kindest Bookstore Employee of the Month Award goes to the woman at the Barnes & Noble on M street in Georgetown. If you are reading this (I am sure she isn't), thanks for your enthusiasm. "Oh, I love new authors and new books!" she said, and then she introduced me to the store book buyer and they both gave me the name of the events organizer. And they said they would order some of my books right away. And she liked the book cover. (Miss Manners Rule #3,405: There is no such thing as an ugly baby, and there is no such thing as an ugly book cover.) So I'm sending my buddies over there to buy copies. It's nice to have that warm feel of camaraderie in a bookstore, and it's especially impressive in a large chain.

The Next Book or Not

2006-06-10T03:21:00.000-07:00

On my computer I have a folder I’ve named New Book Project, and one called My Blog. New Book Project was last opened Memorial Day weekend, the same weekend I started My Blog, which as you can see I open more frequently. So now I am running an experiment. I am going to continue this Blog for two more months and see if I make any headway with New Book Project. If I don’t, I’m going to then open a new folder on my computer titled Depression. The latest rage is to turn a Blog into a book, but that only makes sense if I’m planning on writing a memoir or a first person novel. What if Blogs aren’t the first step to writing a book at all, but just one more excuse not to get around to writing a book? Hmmm.... I may have to open that Depression folder earlier than I thought.

Translating Haiku; Emiko Miyashita

2006-06-04T09:16:00.000-07:00

I used to think that my only limitations to translating haiku were my fluency in the original language and my poetic talents in English. But I now know there are more obstacles than that.

Last winter, I decided to entertain myself through the bitter cold months in Quebec City (where I live) by translating haiku:

first snow --
I linger in bed
translating haiku

Abigail Friedman

Japanese haiku poet Emiko Miyashita had given me a book of her haiku a while back, so I pulled this off the shelf one Sunday morning, got back in bed, and flipped through the pages. This one struck me as quite translatable:

春寒し殻の硬きを踏み砕く
harusamushi kara no kataki o fumikudaku

At first I thought of translating it this way:

cold spring
the hardness of husks
I crush underfoot

or maybe this way:

cold spring
the hardness of husks
crushed underfoot

but then I felt that “cold spring” sets a stark, clear mood. The cold in springtime isn’t a fuzzy-minded cold, like in the winter, where the cold is so harsh it numbs my faculties. In the springtime, the cold wakes me up and makes me alert. So I thought I should be blunt and clear at the end of the haiku, like this:

cold spring
the hardness of husks
I step on and crush

As an aside, I confess that I am partial to inserting a subject (in the above case, “I”) now and then in my translations, as I think we sometimes take the ambiguity that is natural in Japanese and carry it over into English, where it is unnatural. The result: North America is awash in haiku that sound like the fortune in a fortune cookie. I don’t always spell out the subject, but I think it is okay now and then to favor the natural tone of a haiku over the literal (lack of a subject) in the original Japanese.

Here is a condensed version of Emiko's email back to me on my translation of her haiku:

Dear Abigail,

My English version of this haiku goes like this:

a shell's solidity
crushed under my foot
early spring

殻　can be husk and also shell, a very handy word in Japanese, and at the same time a very confusing word for a translator.

春寒しis used in spring, after risshun 立春 (my note: another haiku seasonal word) and when it is still cold. An early spring kigo (my note: seasonal word). We feel that "Oh, the calendar tells us it is already spring, but we are freezing!!" We feel even colder because our expectation is high and we think it should be warmer judging by the calendar.

I have the image first--the crushed shell--and then the early spring in the third line in my English version. Somehow, I had wanted the fact first and then the matching seasonal word to give the background for the poem.

Crushing a tiny shell under my sole was a cold experience for me. Its crisp texture and that small crushing sound, a very dry sound -- they were very appealing to me then.

And then Emiko took on my translation:

cold spring
the hardness of husks
I step on and crush

She wrote:

I did not intend to step on a shell and crushed it on purpose, but this one has such a feeling, and it interesting in that way--as if to crush the hard husks of winter which are still remaining here and there on the surface of the ground. By crushing those husks of winter one by one, it gets a little warmer and warmer.

I am grateful that Emiko Miyashita was able to clarify for me what she meant by her haiku. With haiku poets who are long gone, my only hope is to learn as much as possible about them before tackling a translation.

The other thing I enjoyed about my exchange with Emiko is how she acknowledged the possibilities in my version of her haiku. It wasn’t just politeness (although she is always gracious and thoughtful). She was also highlighting a reality of haiku: we might write a haiku intending one meaning, and another person will come along and see in the haiku an alternate meaning. In my book, The Haiku Apprentice: Memoirs of Writing Poetry in Japan, Traveling Man Tree touches on this when he says to me, “Sometimes a haiku will hold more meaning than you think of when you write it.” (The Haiku Apprentice, p. 121.)

Rather than being irritated by multiple interpretations, I see it as an intriguing aspect of haiku -- one that is not so different from life itself. I might go about my day thinking I am conveying one face to the world, but another person will see a very different part of my soul, one that I had no idea I was conveying.

May 28, 2006

2006-05-30T13:47:00.000-07:00

Here’s what happened in Cambridge. I go to pick up my son from college. I tell him to start loading up the car while I’m just going to check out a couple of the bookstores. (Why does this remind me of the mother of a friend I had growing up, who would tell us to go out and play while (I much later realized) she sat inside and drank? There’s something addictive to this whole book selling business.) I walk into a bookstore and start talking to the young girl at the cash register about my book. She looks about sixteen. I make the same points as I did in New Hampshire, and hand over all the cards I have left. She’s real perky and she tells me she’s going to hand the cards to the manager as soon as he comes in. I realize I’ve made a mistake: of course no manager is going to be at the bookstore at ten a.m. on a Saturday morning of a three-day weekend. I want my cards back but don’t want to look too cheap to the sixteen-year-old girl, so I just say thank you and wander around the bookstore, trying to find the poetry section. It takes me a long time to find it -- not a good sign. I think to myself, When my book comes out, it will be here in the poetry section. But if it had already come out, and if it were here, I would take it and move it There, at the front of the store, in that bin with the sign “New and Notable.” I walk out of the store, wondering if there is a law against that, or if bookstore owners blackball authors who come in and toy around with their shelves.

I go back to check up on how my son is doing loading up the car. He’s doing just fine, so soon I am back on the streets of Cambridge checking out more bookstores. There’s this gorgeous little boutique, with a sign hanging outside that comes right out of Dickens, Grolier Poetry Book Shop. (I suppose nowadays we would say the sign comes right out of Harry Potter.) I walk in and I am charmed. I walk back out and go back to the first bookstore, find the sixteen year old, and ask her if I can have some of the cards back. (Really, I do that.) Now that I’ve got the cards, I go back to Grolier’s. It’s a humid, steamy day in Cambridge and my hair, which is naturally frizzy on a dry day, is sticking out about a foot all around. I pull it back and down before I go back into the bookstore, a hopeless attempt to make myself look more main stream.

My son told me he thought Grolier’s was closing, but when I ask the gentleman at the cashier (who also happens to be the manager), he explains they’ve been saved. About two months ago, Nigerian poet Ifeanyi Menkiti, a professor at Wellesley College, bought the bookstore which has been in existence for almost eighty years. The manager shows me a picture of Professor Menkiti on the wall and points to a book of his poetry. We talk some more, about what kinds of people write poetry, and to illustrate a point, he leads me to a shelf and pulls out a poetry book by a zoologist. I listen, but I really am focused on selling my books today, not on reading those of others. The manager accepts my postcards, and suggests all kinds of things might be possible. I assure him that I am game for anything. Even washing windows, I think to myself but don’t say.

I walk back out, and it dawns on me that I didn’t even have the courtesy to buy a single book. Like the woman in the New Hampshire bookshop said, everybody wants to have their own poetry read; nobody wants to listen to someone else’s. I promise myself I’ll buy a poetry book from Grolier’s next time I go in. Meanwhile, I think my son has finished loading the car.

May 27, 2006

2006-05-30T13:44:00.000-07:00

I’m back from New England. Here’s what happened. First, I stopped in a small independent bookstore in New Hampshire. The young man at the register led me to a friendly woman in a small room at the back of the store. She is surrounded by books and is facing a computer. Her keyboard could use some cleaning and I think that if I had some Windex, I could really do something for her keyboard. I hand her some postcards. Hi, I’m Abigail Friedman and I’ve just written this book, The Haiku Apprentice: Memoirs of Writing Poetry in Japan. I come through this area fairly frequently to visit my daughter and I wanted to let you know that I’d be happy to do some book signings, readings…. My book is a Book Sense pick for June…. This last bit of information gets her attention. She takes the cards, reads one, looks up at me and confides, Here’s what I’ve found with poetry: Everyone wants to come in and read their own poetry, but no one wants to listen to someone else’s poetry. I tell her that my book doesn’t have much of my own poetry in it – that’s the apprentice part in the title. It’s a memoir. It’s about Japan. A memoir? She perks up. Oh, I can do something with that. Japan also seems to be a draw, at least more of a draw than poetry. She tells me she is going to order some of my books right away. I think she means it, too. I’m making headway here; this is starting to be fun. I try not to think about the economics of it all (How much did I spend on gas driving down here? What’s the percentage again that I get on each book? How many books is she ordering?) I want to tell her to make sure not to stick my book on the poetry shelf but on the MEMOIR shelf, or the JAPAN shelf. Or maybe both. But I think I shouldn’t push my luck. I leave her my email address and tell her that I’ll come back to sign all those books.

Outside, my daughter who just failed her driving test that day is fuming. What took you so long, mom? You said ‘five minutes.’ I drove in a circle around the parking lot three times while I waited for you. You what?! I swear to myself that never again will I leave her the car keys so that she can listen to music on the radio.

May 25, 2006

2006-05-30T13:38:00.001-07:00

Publication date is this month. Every night I secretly Google myself to see if the book is out yet. I pretend to myself that I am someone else each night, Oh, let’s see if that book by Abigail Friedman is available yet on Amazon.com. This week, my publicist sent me a nice surprise, a stack of about five hundred post cards featuring the cover of my book and a couple of blurbs. It looks great. I want to send it to everyone I know, then realize how much time it will take for me to write all of the addresses. Not to mention the money for stamps. There has to be a less time-intensive way for me to make use of these cards. Because the whole problem with marketing a book, I am learning, is that it takes TIME. Time away from writing, creating, dreaming, imagining.

I’m going down to New Hampshire and Cambridge, to take my daughter who is away at school for her driving test and to pick up my son from college the next day. I’ll take a batch of postcards with me, and stop in bookstores along the way.

May 24, 2006

2006-05-30T13:24:00.000-07:00

When he sent me the contract to sign, my publisher added in his e-mail, “This contract is contingent upon your being a willing participant in the promotion and publicity.” What’s that about? I wondered. I imagined loners in skyscrapers writing books, furtively opening the door to the hallway when they were done, stuffing their book down the U.S. Post Office chute and scurrying back to their rooms to write more. Someone at a kitchen table in the backwoods of Maine, a pencil in one hand and a bottle of Early Times in the other, finishing up a few pages and staggering down to the end of the driveway, forcing the pages into the mailbox for the postman. As for me, my publisher could have made our contract contingent upon my washing his windows once a week - I would have signed just about anything. Getting my book, my first book, published was the thing.